“Will you please give me that chicken?” said Nina.
“Shall I send it for you, ma’am?”
“No, I am going to carry it somewhere.”
He turned, spoke to a satellite, then handed her through the window a bird of moderate size on a very large plate.
“Do you think you can manage it?” he asked, anxious, and slightly surprised.
“Manage a chicken,” she murmured; “well, I should rather think so. Oh! please give me a napkin;” and putting the plate on the floor, she turned back.
He handed her one that she unfolded and carefully spread over the outstretched legs and wings of the defunct fowl. Then she began her progress down the passage.
The steward craned his neck out the window. “An odd little card! I wonder where she’s going.”
All went well with her until she approached a stairway that wound aggravatingly upward. There the chicken began to show signs of animation, wobbling about on the plate, and wildly kicking the napkin as if to dislodge it. Nina laughed; then, with eyes glued on her burden, tried to walk back steadily.
Some one came leaping down the stairs, and in her anxiety to avoid a collision she stepped aside too quickly. “Oh, my chicken!” she cried, sorrowfully staring at the empty plate in her hand.